Rex Royale

By Jack Erickson

When the decomposed body of a charismatic Las Vegas casino mogul is recovered from a northern California lake resort, a reporter and free lance writer investigate. They discover the community's dark secrets; missing women, arsons, police corruption, and rogue backwoodsmen in a remote hunting lodge.
A startling discovery reveals a decades old murder committed by one of the community's leaders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RedBrick Press
• Release date: Nov 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781476472713

Jack Erickson

Jack Erickson writes in multiple genres: international thrillers, mysteries, true crime, short mysteries, and romantic suspense.He is currently writing the Milan Thriller Series featuring the anti-terrorism police, DIGOS, at Milan's Questura (police headquarters). Book I in the series is Thirteen Days in Milan. Book 2, No One Sleeps, was published in December 2016. Book 3, Vesuvius Nights, was published in 2019. Book 4, The Lonely Assassin, was published in 2020.The models for Erickson's Milan thrillers are three popular Italian mystery series: Donna Leon's Commissario Brunetti in Venice, Andrea Camilleri's Inspector Salvo Montalbano in Sicily, and Michael Dibdin's Commissario Aurelio Zen in Rome. All three have been produced as TV series at either BBC, PBS, RAI, or Deutsche WelleErickson travels throughout Italy for research and sampling Italian contemporary life and culture. In earlier careers, he was a U.S. Senate speechwriter, Washington-based editor, and RedBrick Press publisher. He wrote and published several books on emerging craft brewing industry including the award winning Star Spangled Beer: A Guide to America's New Microbreweries and Brewpubs.Before he began writing fiction, he was a wealth manager for a national brokerage in Silicon Valley.

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Rex Royale

Jack Erickson

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Copyright © 2010 by Jack Erickson

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction based upon the imagination of the author. No real people are represented. 

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Milan Thriller Series

Thirteen Days in Milan

No One Sleeps

Vesuvius Nights

The Lonely Assassin

Novels

Bloody Mary Confession

Rex Royale

A Streak Across the Sky

Mornings Without Zoe

Short Mysteries

Perfect Crime

Missing Persons

Teammates

The Stalker

Weekend Guest

True Crime

Blood and Money in the Hunt Country

Noir Series

Bad News is Back in Town

Audio Books

A Streak Across the Sky

Perfect Crime

The Stalker

Teammates

Nonfiction

Star Spangled Beer:

A Guide to America’s New Microbreweries and Brewpubs

Great Cooking with Beer

Brewery Adventures in the Wild West

California Brewin’

Brewery Adventures in the Big East

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Rex Royale

Chapter One

I was standing on the boat dock at my lake cabin, admiring the view of the morning sun shining on Mt. Shasta, when I was startled by a staccato burst that sounded like a firing squad. I looked back and saw a flock of noisy ravens explode from ponderosa pines after being spooked by a red-tailed hawk.

The cawing ravens rose above the treetops, circled, and flew toward the solitary hawk. The hawk had gray and white feathers on its chest, pinkish tail feathers spread in a fan, and yellow legs ending in sharp talons. It was probably an immature male hunting for chicks abandoned in nests or rodents scurrying across the forest floor.

I’d seen ravens and hawks duel in the skies above Lake Britton before, and I’d always been fascinated by the aerial drama. Ravens are menacing-looking with shiny black feathers like armor plates, bullet-shaped bodies, nose-cone heads, and sharp, obsidian beaks. Their powerful wings allow them to fly aggressively against foes. Other birds don’t mess with ravens; they’re the gritty street fighters of the skies.

Red-tailed hawks have battering-ram bodies and broad wingspans designed for soaring long distances. They don’t so much fly as soar, and they can’t make defensive midair maneuvers—a disadvantage against the faster, more aggressive ravens.

I stood enthralled on the dock as the cawing ravens, sunlight shining on their iridescent feathers, reached the hawk’s altitude and began diving at its wings and fanned tail. The first raven assault came from above and the second from below, as if they were vectored in by a ground control station.

The birds’ shrieking and cawing had disturbed the early morning serenity of Lake Britton. Two fishermen in a bass boat lowered their fishing rods and craned their necks to look up at the swirling birds.

A flock of seagulls bobbing on the lake rose in a chorus of shrieks and flew down the lake, keeping low to escape the aerial combat above them.

The hawk took defensive moves, dipping toward the lake, veering left and right to elude the mob. Two ravens flanked the hawk while a third dove from above and collided with it, sending both birds tumbling in the sky. It was like watching a World War II dogfight of nimble Spitfires attacking a slower Messerschmitt.

After several swoops, dips, and feigns, the hawk knew it was no match for the ravens. It found a thermal, rose, and turned west, pursued by the noisy ravens until they flew into a low cloud covering a pine-topped hill.

Communing with Mother Nature this morning, Tyler?

I was startled by the voice of my friend Sanjay, who had stepped onto the dock while I was absorbed in the aerial warfare.

Hey, you scared me. Did you see that? I said, pointing across the lake toward the birds. A flock of ravens chased a young hawk away. I’ll bet he doesn’t fly this way again until he’s learned better hunting skills.

Those damned birds are noisy. I heard them up at the cabin, Sanjay said, lowering the cooler into our fishing boat. Wake the dead with all the cawing. It sounded like a war.

I picked up our fishing gear, tackle box, and net from the dock and set them in the bottom of the bass boat we’d put in the water the previous afternoon. Amazing to see how aggressive ravens are, I said. They spotted the hawk coming across the lake, and the whole flock took after him. I counted a dozen ravens; he didn’t have a chance against those numbers.

You sure love your birds. Pretty soon you’ll be cawing like one of them.

Ravens are smart, I said, checking the throttle and choke to fire up my 40-horsepower motor. They communicate with gestures, use tools to get food, and alert hunters to wild game. They get a meal if hunters bag the animal.

Sanjay laughed. I always thought you should have become a game warden instead of a reporter, he said. I don’t know anybody who knows more about birds and fish than you do.

I almost grew up on this lake. Dad and I fixed up our cabin when I was a teenager so we could fish in the summer and hunt deer in the fall.

A real nature boy. You were lucky.

Sure was, and I want my son to have the same experiences. Who wouldn’t want to spend the summer here? I said, motioning at the pine forests along the shoreline. I wait for this weekend all winter . . . the scent of pine resin in the morning air, a mist over the lake, and Mt. Shasta just a few miles away. It’s like heaven here.

We’re not in heaven yet, Sanjay said, untying the mooring line and tossing it into the boat. We’ll be in heaven when we’re grilling bass filets and a mound of potatoes tonight and washing them down with cold beers. Let’s get this tub going and catch some fish.

I laughed. You’re a piece of work, Sanjay. I come here to be close to nature, and you’re more interested in your stomach.

What can I say? I’m a simple guy. I come here because we keep our cooler stocked with brews and have a whole week without alarm clocks or jobs to go to. Which is another definition of heaven.

Sanjay cracked wise like he was from Brooklyn, even though he was raised in Mumbai, which he once confessed was like growing up in a colony of fire ants.

I knew from past experience that Sanjay would be just as enthralled after a week of fishing at the cabin. By the time our teenage sons arrived on Friday for Memorial weekend, he’d be musing about buying a cabin, planting a garden, and hunting and fishing for his food.

Sanjay was a software engineer who’d made it big in Silicon Valley. He was using the freedom it brought him to indulge in American leisure pastimes he hadn’t had growing up in India. We took our boys to Giants game, coached their soccer team, took them fishing in the summer, and went skiing with them at Tahoe in the winter.

Sanjay and I had driven north from San Francisco on Friday afternoon to get the cabin ready for summer: turn on the electricity, take bedding and towels from the closets, get the boat and motor out of the shed, and clean our fishing gear. After doing our chores, we had watched the sun set over the lake, drunk beers, and eaten burgers cooked on the grill before turning in early to get on the lake just after sunrise.

Sanjay pushed us away from the dock and stepped into the boat. I paddled out of the cove in front of our cabin and fired up the motor.

The 40-horsepower motor coughed after six months in winter storage and then settled into a steady rumbling. When I reached the main channel of the lake, I made a few turns, stopped, and put the boat into reverse. I killed the motor, waited a minute, and then pulled the lanyard. It fired up with no problem.

Humming like a top, Sanjay said. We did good last fall, draining the motor, putting the boat on blocks, and throwing the tarp over it to keep the critters away.

Take care of your boat, and it will take care of you. Don’t want to be on the lake and have it conk out.

Spoken like an Eagle Scout. Now let’s see where the fish are hiding.

Let’s make a quick run to the marina first. It’s always fun to check it out, I said, steering us a half mile south toward the marina, where fishing boats, sailboats, and party barges were moored. A few fishing boats were out on the lake, probably Burney locals who, like Sanjay and me, were getting some early fishing before the crowds arrived Memorial weekend.

After a spin by the Pacific Gas and Electric dam, which had flooded Pit River and created Lake Britton in the 1930s, I headed back north, past our cove and under the two-lane Highway 89 bridge and the rickety, abandoned railroad trestle where the movie Stand By Me had been filmed.

Past the trestle, we cruised down the eastern shore with the sun rising over the pines, the morning air still cool and damp. We cast near fallen trees where bass were leaping to snack on black bugs skimming the surface.

We caught a few bass and then pulled onto a sandy beach for an early lunch of curry chicken wraps and hummus, which Sanjay’s wife had prepared. We sipped cold beers and waded into shallows of the cold lake while the sun warmed our backs.

Nice little beach, Sanjay said. Let’s bring the boys here next weekend. The water’s chilly, but they’ll want to swim.

They can swing off that rope and jump into the lake, I said, pointing to a rope dangling from a black oak limb leaning over the bank. I did that every summer when I was their age.

After lunch, we cruised to the southern end of the lake, fishing along the western shoreline. In the early afternoon, I eased us into one of my favorite places to fish, a remote cove partially hidden by ponderosa pines arching along the bank.

I maneuvered through the narrow passage that opened into a shady cove a little larger than a basketball court. I cut the motor and reached for my rod while Sanjay made his first cast.

I was just about to cast when Sanjay gasped. Whoa, look at that, Tyler.

I looked toward the middle of the cove where Sanjay’s line had dropped near a partially submerged log. His juicy night crawler was dangling between what looked eerily like a thumb and first finger of a withered hand, curled like a basketball player’s after a jump shot.

Wha—what are you snagged on?

I’m not sure . . . it looks like . . . a skeleton?

I squinted for a better look. The pine’s trunk was sprawled across the cove, top branches submerged. It’s root ball lay on the bank; gnarled roots were laced with mud and leaves. Protruding out of the water was a slimy green and black knob that looked like a decomposed hand.

A shadow passed overhead. A red-tailed hawk was circling, eyeing a bass carcass rotting on the muddy bank near box turtles sunning on exposed rocks. Bullfrogs croaked in the reeds, looking for love.

Let’s get closer, I said, laying my fishing rod on the bottom the boat. Could it be a branch?

Sanjay grunted. Nah . . . that ‘branch’ has fingernails. Long, like claws. Think a hunter fell in and drowned?

Nah, one or two get lost every season, but they wander out, or search teams find them. Maybe a lost hiker. The Pacific Crest Trail’s a couple miles away. There’s an old fire road near that ridge. The Forest Service posts signs warning about the cliff.

I wouldn’t hike on that ridge, Sanjay said. Lose your footing and you’d fall in before you knew what happened. Too dangerous.

If it was a lone hiker, search teams would have had a hard time finding him. This place is remote. It doesn’t get much sunlight except around noon.

Yeah, it’s like a primeval forest. It’s spooky, all dark and misty.

I want to get closer and see if it’s a hand. I picked up a paddle and stroked toward the snag.

A largemouth bass exploded out of the water and snatched Sanjay’s night crawler, flipped in midair, gray-green scales glistening, spiny dorsal fin outstretched, and splashed below.

Wow! Sanjay yipped, his carbon fishing rod bowing with a hooked bass. Look! It ripped something off the thumb!

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A shred of what appeared to be discolored flesh drooping from the bone had plopped into the water.

Gross! That looks like flesh! Sanjay’s taut line raked dried pine needles off the branches, churning the murky water. His line crossed over the strip of flesh and snagged it.

The flesh was stuck on his line like a slice of pork on a barbecue grill.

You snagged flesh off the thumb—

How the hell! he muttered, staring at the greenish schmutz twitching on his line.

Don’t let your fish get away!

The bass dove into the submerged branches.

He’s going deep to cut your line!

Come on, boy. Hang in there. I’m not going to lose you! Sanjay said, his voice trembling. He rose, gripping his bowed rod. Easy . . . easy . . . out of that snag . . .

Take your time, I said, my eyes darting from his line to the skeleton and back to Sanjay struggling with the bass, each trying to outsmart the other. When bass take a hook, they dive, twisting and turning to snag on a branch and break the line.

Come out of there . . . Sanjay coaxed.

Steady . . . steady . . . work him. Get him out of the branches!

Sanjay tugged his line away from the snag. It cleared the branches, slicing left and right across the surface, the flesh still dangling.

Bring him closer. I’ll get the net. Give him a tug if he breaks the surface.

Ten feet free of the snag, the bass rose to the surface. Getting him . . . getting him . . . Sanjay said, inching his line closer to our boat. He’s tiring. Going to bring him in.

Take your time. We’ve got all afternoon.

A motion on the muddy bank caught my eye. A black snake slithered into the water, coiling and twisting, its olive-shaped head skimming across the cove like a serpent in an Egyptian tomb carving.

Easy, easy . . . this way, Sanjay said, his voice breaking. He’s tiring. Get ready. The surface bulged, exposing the green scaly back of the bass, its spiny dorsal fin flared. He’s rising!

Ten feet from the boat, the bass exploded to the surface, thrashing in midair, open mouth revealing the wormed hook in its cheek. It flipped, exposing a white belly and slashing tail, and splashed back into the water.

Wow! He’s huge! I yelled.

The bass burst out of the water again, flipping to extract the hook, bluish green scales shimmering. Sanjay held fast. The bass was tiring, inches from the surface, plump body rolling in a slow dance. The duel was almost over.

I reached for the net as Sanjay reeled him closer. The green scaly head broke the surface, mouth open to spit out the hook.

I scooped the net into the water. Got him! I lifted the net into the boat, the bass splashing us with cool lake water.

Sanjay held his line over the net, the rod quivering. The slimy flesh wiggled on his line and dropped onto my ankle.

Ah! I screamed. It’s on my foot!

It was cold and slimy, like a leech. I kicked off my sandal, but the piece of flesh was still stuck to my skin. I kicked again and it flopped off, sticking to the bottom of the boat.

It touched my foot! Yuck!

I flipped the net so the bass couldn’t jump back in the lake. The fish thrashed against the aluminum like a jackhammer, glassy eyes bulging, scales glowing like jewels, open mouth revealing blood-red gills lining the throat.

Get rid of that—thing! Sanjay said. It’s gross.

I couldn’t toss it overboard. I certainly didn’t want to touch it again. It freaked me out, but I wasn’t going to toss it away. I’d been a reporter long enough to know you don’t throw out incidental material at a possible crime scene.

Have it your way. You’re strange, Sanjay said, reaching into the net and grabbing the bass’s lower jaw to stop the thrashing. He lifted the fish, its gaping mouth lined with sharp teeth. He pulled out the hook with pliers and placed the bass back in the net.

A beauty! he said. We high-fived like schoolboys after a home run.

Simultaneously we turned to look at the decomposed hand while the bass flopped against the boat.

I’m going to piss in my pants if I caught a fish off a corpse. Let’s get out of here; this place gives me the creeps.

Wait. Let’s get closer, I said, reaching for the paddle. I heard splashing across the cove. The snake was coiled in the shallows, head raised, the front legs and head of a frog twitching in its mouth. The snake swayed to ease the frog down into its belly.

Oh, man, look at that, I said, pointing at the reptile. You’re not the only one who just caught lunch.

The snake’s mouth widened, and the spasming frog slid down the snake’s engorged neck.

I hate snakes. Let’s get out of here, said Sanjay.

I reached into the tackle box for my digital camera, zoomed in, and pressed the button. A flash lit up the shadowy cove.

Why the hell you taking a picture? Sanjay yelled. You’re like a Boy Scout. Are you working for a junior detective badge?

I snapped again and lit up the cove once more. A brown wasp buzzed around my head, which was damp with sweat.

Bugs all over here, Sanjay yelled, swatting the black flies swarming around his head. Let’s get out of here; too many snakes and bugs.

There’s something on the wrist, I said.

Sanjay squinted at the snag. A watchband?

Looks like a Rolex. I said. See the markings around the edges?

Sanjay grimaced. Who cares? This place is weird. Bugs, snakes, rotting fish, and a damn body. And that—THING—stuck on the boat!

Let’s go to the marina and call the police, I said. If that’s a body down there, we’ve got to report it. I pulled the lanyard to start the motor. It exploded with a gaseous burst, shattering the stillness. I shifted into reverse and steered backwards toward the main channel.

Sanjay said. This place is spooky. We’re supposed to be fishing, not finding bodies. Cover that THING! It’s gross!

When I cleared the bend, the afternoon sun was shining on Shasta’s snowy glaciers to the north. The blue sky was painted with wisps of cirrus clouds floating over the Cascades. I breathed deeply, sucking in the clean mountain air, aromatic of ponderosa and yellow pines.

How do you think the body got there? I asked. An accident or . . .

Sanjay put on his sunglasses and looked back at the cove as we roared toward the marina. Hell if I know, he shouted over the motor, holding his hat. Maybe someone thumped him and dropped him in the lake.

Yeah, I was thinking the same.

Keep this tub moving, damn it, Sanjay said. Somebody might be watching us.

CHAPTER TWO

Sanjay was cleaning our fish at the outdoor sink on our dock when we heard the throaty rumble of a vehicle coming through the woods. He’s driving too fast; he’ll miss the turnoff, Sanjay said as I handed him a cold beer. He better slow down when he comes down the drive, or he’ll end up in the drink.

The narrow dirt road to our cabin was bordered by ponderosa pines and incense cedars. In May, the road is always as hard as cement, pocked with grooves and potholes that I repair during summer visits. Come down too fast, and you could slide into the cove.

We heard gears grinding and the growl of a diesel engine as a black Explorer burst through the trees, skidding on the hard dirt. A second after it came into sight, it slammed into a pothole.

WHAM!

Whoops, Sanjay said. Would have seen it if he wasn’t going so fast.

Damn! a voice hollered from the driver’s window. The speeding SUV bounced out of the pothole, skidded, and braked inches from the water, trailed by a cloud of dust and dried pine needles.

My, my, Sanjay said with a smirk. He’s a lucky boy. What’s his next trick?

The driver crunched gears into reverse and gunned the engine to pull back from the water. The SUV lurched backwards until the left rear tire slammed back into the pothole, followed by the left front tire, slamming the vehicle until it braked to a halt, engine still growling.

Double damn! the driver swore again. A cloud of dust and dried leaves raised by the commotion settled over the shiny vehicle like a dirty shroud.

Sanjay chuckled, sipping his beer. I saw that stunt on Dukes of Hazard once, he said. Three cop cars chasing a hot rod end up in the drink. It was a scream. Cop cars underwater, deputies crawling out of the windows and shaking their fists at the wily guy who tricked them into a swamp. God, it was funny. I couldn’t stop laughing. This guy should be a stunt driver.

Block lettering and an enlarged badge identified the vehicle:

Sheriff’s Department, Shasta County, 835-555-4578

A beefy officer in a black uniform extracted himself from the SUV, flexing his shoulders, hitching up his pants, and adjusting his belt loaded down with police gear. Black aviator sunglasses rested on high cheekbones and creased his sun-burnished cheeks. He sauntered towards us with a funny gait, left leg higher on the sloping bank, right leg lower.

Sanjay raised his hands as if to applaud. Should we give him a hand? That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

I grabbed his arm. Better not. Not a good way to start off.

The officer took a cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it toward the cove. It landed in the sand. He fidgeting with his cop gear, shifting from one foot to the other like something was sliding down his leg.

Stripping off his aviator sunglasses, he glared first at Sanjay and then at me.

You Barnard? he said, trying to sound gruff. But his voice was high-pitched, like a squeaky door. Small brown eyes were set deep in his melon face, like raisins in a bun.

Bonnard, Tyler. That’s me, I said. I called from the marina. Cell phones don’t work on the lake. My phone’s not hooked up yet for the summer.

That’s a hazardous driveway you got there, he said, trying to make his voice sound deeper. Get it fixed. Someone’s going to get hurt coming down that road.

There’s a warning sign at the turnoff, Sanjay said.

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. Well, it’s not marked good. Can’t see it through the trees.

I’ll fix it, I promised.

Dispatcher said you found a body out here. Wher’zit?

About two miles from here, I said, motioning with my hand holding the beer. Past the 89 bridge and the McCloud railroad trestle.

He nodded. Sheriff sent me to come see. He’s over to a big truck overturned on I-5 near Dunsmuir. An eighteen-wheeler rolled down the southbound, blocking the northbound. It’s a mess. Traffic’s backed up two miles each direction. He’ll be there the rest of the night. He wants me to take a look.

Understand. We’ll take you there, I said. What’s your name, deputy?

He glanced down at the name tag on his uniform blouse. Sergeant Vince Harley. Been on the force fifteen years.

Nice to meet you, Deputy Harley, I said. This is my fishing buddy, Sanjay. We live in San Francisco and are up for a week of fishing.

He looked over at the family cabin against a hillside under a canopy of mature Douglas firs and yellow pine. The front door was open, revealing coolers, cases of beer, and groceries we had brought up that morning.

This your place?

Yes.

Had it long?

It’s our family cabin. My grandfather built it in the fifties after PG&E put in the dam that created Lake Britton.

You from here? He screwed up his face, furrowing his brow. Don’t look familiar.

I graduated from Burney High School. We lived in town during the school year and at the cabin in the summer.

When you graduate?

1989.

You know Sheriff Knowles? He was ’87 or ’88.

Yes, we played football my sophomore year before he joined the Army and went to Korea. He was all-conference linebacker his senior year.

I was defensive tackle. Graduated in ’95. Went to Shasta College before joining the Sheriff’s Department. He furrowed his brow again like he was trying to recall something. He raised a hand, a finger in the air.

"Your dad the insurance guy in town, right? City council or something?

He was, before he retired.

And a sister?

Yes, Harriet.

She in that car accident killed the Gentry girl?

Yes.

Damn, that was terrible. On Highway 299, down the hill near Fall River.

I nodded.

The girl who died—Debra—was only fifteen. Hard on her family. They lived down the street from us. I remember seeing her walk to grade school.

I felt uneasy talking about Harriet’s youthful tragedy with someone I didn’t know, even if he was a deputy sheriff.

Sanjay was quick to sense my discomfort. Your cruiser OK there, Harley? he said, pointing to the parked vehicle aimed at the cove. If it was me, I’d back up under those trees. Another car comes down that road, it could bump you into the lake.

Harley looked back at his precarious parking job. I better move it, don’t you think?

He headed back to the cruiser, got in, and gunned the engine. The Explorer lurched backward, kicking up dirt as he spun the wheel while backing under the canopy of ponderosa pines, scraping the side panels in the heavy brush.

The noise roused blackbirds out of the pines, squawking in protest, flying across the cove into a grove of conifers.

Harley eased out of the cruiser, walking back to the dock with the odd gait of one foot higher than the other. He passed the cigarette butt he had tossed and kicked sand over it. I would retrieve it later that day and put it in the trash. I hate cigarette butts, particularly when they’re in the front yard of our cabin, where I vacation with Sanjay, our sons, and various friends.

I seen your place from the lake before. When you put in that beach? Harley asked, pointing to a sandy stretch next to our dock. Not many cabins on the lake have their own sand beach. It’s nice.

My grandfather, Dad, and I poured it the year before grandfather died. We put in a patio and vegetable garden for Mom the same summer.

Nice shed, he said, gesturing to a wooden boathouse behind the cabin where we store our boats, motors, and fishing gear.

You come here often? he asked.

Every summer I since I was a teenager. Sanjay and I always come up the week before Memorial weekend. Our boys are joining us Friday.

This your buddy? Harley asked, looking at Sanjay, eyes narrowing.

The name’s Sanjay, he said.

Harley studied his dark face, smooth black hair, and dark eyes. You from . . .

India.

Harley nodded. Yeah, didn’t think you were local. We’ve got our own Indians around here, he said, a corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer. Not all the best citizens. Do them good to get off the reservation and get a job.

Sanjay and I didn’t respond.

But you don’t have to deal with them like we do.

Again, we remained silent.

Had one of your Indian restaurants in Burney few years back, Harley continued, changing the subject. Didn’t last. Food’s too hot and spicy for me.

Don’t eat it, then, Sanjay said.

Harley looked over at me. So how’d you find a body?

We got up around noon, unpacked the truck, and decided to get the boat out for a little fishing.

Sure it’s a body, not just a stump or something weird? Don’t like a wild goose chase.

I took a plastic bag off the post and handed it to Harley. What do you think this is?

Harley wrinkled his nose. Huh?

Open it, Sanjay said.

Harley opened it and looked in. Whatisit? He peered in, sniffed, and jerked his head back. God, that stinks! What is it, some dead fish thing? It’s gross!

It came off the thumb when the fish grabbed the bait. It caught on the line and fell into the boat. Is that human flesh?

Harley squinted and made a face. Damn . . . looks like . . . looks like . . . yeah, something dead. Fish thing . . . bladder . . . guts.

More like a bit of muscle and skin, Sanjay said.

Hmm . . . yeah, maybe you’re right.

Take it to your lab. They’ll tell you, Sanjay said.

OK, that’s a good idea. Let me put it in my vehicle.

Harley returned to his SUV, tossed the bag onto the seat, and came back. I got into the boat, and Sanjay waited on the dock, holding the mooring line.

Let’s see what you got out there, Harley said. Got about an hour of sunlight left.

Sit at the bow, Harley, I suggested.

He steadied himself at the front of the twenty-two-foot boat. Sanjay followed, pushing us away from the dock. I pulled the lanyard to fire up the motor, slipped into gear, and steered out of the cove toward the lake.

It was six thirty, the evening sun casting shadows across the western end of Lake Britton, the air cool and damp. When I reached the main channel and turned northeast, Harley craned his neck to follow the boats heading toward the marina. I kicked up the speed and the bow tipped, kicking up spray. Harley stuck his hand in the lake like a boy out for his first fishing trip.

In silence we passed under the Highway 89 overpass and toward the McCloud railroad trestle. Harley looked up as we went under, studying the decaying ties and rusted rails of the rickety bridge, a local landmark made famous in the coming-of-age movie Stand By Me.

See that Stephen King movie about them boys running across that trestle? Harley asked, turning back to us.

Probably a dozen times, I said over the rumbling of the motor.

Harley nodded. Me too. I watched them film it. Big-time Hollywood guys here. That was a great scene. Scary and funny. King writes good. I like his movies about ghosts and haunted places and scary things. That one about the crazy dog was real good. And the car that kills people. Can you imagine that, a car that hunts down people and kills them? Who’d think up stuff like that?

We passed through the canyon spanned by the trestle and emerged into a wide basin at the northern end of the lake. Our boat scared a flock of seagulls that rose from the lake, circled overhead, and settled farther down the lake. Evening was coming to Shasta County.

I steered toward the eastern bank, slowed to trolling speed, and turned into the cove. The temperature dropped ten degrees. Night sounds were starting, frogs croaking, cicadas chirping, ravens cawing. Harley dipped his hand over the side, pulled it out, and watched drops fall off his fingers.

Water’s cold. Good spot for bass or crappie, he said. Ain’t been out since opening day. Got to get out one of these days. This the cove?

I said, Yes, around the bend. I eased the throttle to maneuver around the bend where the cove narrowed. It was cool in dark shadows. A hawk shrieked overhead, hidden from view by the steep ravine.

I cut the engine, and our inertia glided us toward the tree snag.

We approached the snag about three in the afternoon, I said, reaching for a paddle to slow our motion. Sanjay cast, and his line looped over the skeleton’s hand in the snag. A bass leaped up and took his bait.

Harley put his hand to his brow to peer into the shadows. The damp air smelled of mud and decaying vegetation. In the center of the snag, I said. Sticking out of branches at water level.

He squinted. There. I see it. That’s weird, just wrinkled skin and bony fingers. Missing fingernails. Happens when they been underwater a long time. What’s that black thing on the wrist?

It’s a Rolex.

What’s a Rolex?

An expensive watch, Sanjay said. Rich folks wear them to show they can afford them.

I heard about ’em, Harley said.

Harley reached for his radio on his epaulette. Sixty-four here, he spoke in police jargon. Yeah. It’s me, Harley. Tell Sheriff we’ve got a body, like was reported. Need divers and lights. It’s stuck in branches underwater. All you can see is a bony hand, slimy skin, and missing fingernails—like that guy we pulled out of Shasta Lake last summer.

A voice squawked back. Harley answered. Don’t know. Can’t tell if it’s a whole body or just a hand.

Another squawk on the radio. Harley shook his head. Naw, I’m not going to stay out here. It’s remote and dark. Bugs and mosquitoes eat me alive. Hell with that; it’ll be here in the morning. This place is like a spooky Stephen King movie. Gives me the creeps.

CHAPTER THREE

The sun was cresting over the Cascades, shining on the snowy summit of Mt. Shasta and lighting the green pastels of the coniferous forests. Ravens greeted the new day, squawking like rowdy neighbors. A bald eagle floated over the lake, scanning the calm surface for rising bass, both looking for a morning treat.

Sanjay and I were sipping coffee on the dock, wearing patchy sweaters and floppy fishing hats against the morning chill, coffee mugs warming our hands. Gentle waves lapped against the beach, as soothing as a baby’s heartbeat.

Mornings are my favorite time of day at the cabin. The sky is the color of the Caribbean Sea, with cotton balls of cumulus clouds floating over the lake, bottoms as flat as a cookie sheet. Crisp mountain air kisses your skin; it could be the best day of your life. Hold your breath and time stands still.

A bass leaped in front of the dock, snatched a water bug in one gulp, and flopped back, splashing ripples across the cove.

Oooo . . . nice-size fish, Sanjay said, elbowing me in the side. But not as big as yesterday. Want to make a cast to try our luck? Good way to start our day.

Nah, we’ve got all day after we do our civic duty, I said, sipping my coffee. We’ll get the sheriff to the cove and come back. Might want to try those ledges under the bridge where we got our limits last year.

Sanjay took a deep breath and let it out slowly. God, I love this mountain air. I’d live here if I could find someone to pay my bills. Know anyone out there willing to lighten my load?

Find a savior for me, and we could both try it.

Yeah, imagine that. We could hunt and fish all year long.

I’d extend the dock and get a bigger boat, I said.

We could be fishing guides in the summer, hunting guides in the fall, ski in the winter, and goof off the rest of the time.

I laughed. You sound like you want to be a mountain man.

Sure, I’d try it.

But, Sanjay, you’re a city boy, always have been. You’d miss your morning latte at Starbucks, chatting about soccer and sudoku, reminiscing about your childhood in India.

You’ve never known the hidden side of me, Tyler. I’ve always fantasized about living in a mountain cabin, growing a beard like Gentle Ben, and having a pet bear.

You watched too many old American TV shows when you were a kid.

True. I loved westerns. Gunsmoke. Wagon Train. Hoss Cartwright was my idol.

I chuckled. My God, Sanjay, those shows are ancient. From the fifties—even before my time.

It’s how I learned about America. My favorite characters were the Indians. Apaches . . . Navahos . . . Sioux . . . Mahicans . . . Mohawks. Those tribal names are so magical. Of course, I should refer to them these days as Native Americans, in order to be racially respectful. I loved their independence and self-reliance. Charles Russell captured it in his paintings—rugged faces, bold features, and proud bearing. Braves in war paint, hair in ponytails with an eagle feather. God, they were handsome. Fearless.

True, they looked awesome.

How would I look as an Indian brave? My coloring is almost the same as theirs.

I laughed, sputtering coffee on my windbreaker. Sanjay, you’re going bald. You’d need a war bonnet to cover your pate.

He took off his hat and rubbed a hand over his yarmulke-sized bald spot. You’re right. I don’t think native American Indians lost their hair. It could have been their diet of venison, fish, corn, and beans.

You know what California Indians ate? Acorn mush. They’d gather acorns in the fall, crush them in stone grinders, soak them to take out the tannins, and roast them in fire pits to make acorn meal.

Yuck. Acorn bread? Strange. I suppose maybe I could get to like it.

How long could you go without curried rice and naan bread?

He shrugged. Maybe a day or two.

How about scones, lattes, and green tea?

He shook his head. Never.

Shaving cream, shampoo, and deodorant?

He made a face. Who needs those things? We only use that stuff so women will sleep with us—

The stillness was broken by the sound of a vehicle rumbling toward our cabin, bumping over the dirt road, pine branches slapping against metal. A black SUV eased down our driveway like a student driver at the wheel. The driver steered